Two Weeks Later
by Jadea
Summary: Before. Another word they never spoke. Before what? Why, before "It," of course.


Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: If I did own Harry Potter, I wouldn't have astronomical student loan payments.   
  


Summary: It's been two weeks, now. Some wounds are healing. Others...   
  


Warnings: Slash. Harry/Ron, with references to forced Draco/Ron.   
  


Notes: This is, again, part of the "A Deal With the Devil" universe, but not the actual sequal. (I really do keep dragging it out, don't I?) Again, this fic *can* be read independent of the others, but it will make a *lot* more sense if you read the others first. 

I never really considered doing a Ron POV in the entire ADWD universe, mainly because I did some truly atrocious things to my favorite redhead and felt really, really guilty. But the fact that *some* people--coughSophieBcough--*insist* on sympathizing with Draco in this, my Despicable!Draco world, meant I had to write a Ron POV. Besides, I had a lot of requests for this. So Sophie, this is for you. My goal was to make you stop sympathizing with the little Slytherin. Unfortunately, this involved torturing Ron even more. I hope you're happy. 

  
  
  
  


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It hurt.   
  


Stinging, aching; a dull pain that pulsed at the base of his lower back, a sick throb.   
  


A hiss of pain escaped his lips and he twisted, fighting desperately to leave the pain that was inside him, that hurt so bad, so bad...   
  


But he couldn't get away. Something, someone; who ever was hurting him was holding him down and he couldn't get away and ithurtithurtithurtbadbad   
  


He buried his face in his pillow, eyes shut tight. He wanted to leave, wanted it to be over...whimpering softly, he reached out, stretching his arm for something to grasp, something to hold onto...   
  


"Ron?"   
  


Blue eyes flew open, blinking against the crimson strands of hair flung across his eyes. Breath that had been choking him, welling up in his throat and making his eyes sting exited his lungs in a rush.   
  


"Ron?"   
  


The soft query hit him like a lightening bolt and he jerked, biting back an exclamation. Almost instantly, however, the tension began to drain away, spiking and then falling. He knew that voice...   
  


He was resting on something, something warm and solid; something that smelled of soap and was murmuring words in his ear, fingers smoothing and stroking and tangling through his hair.   
  


Instinctively he clung tighter to the warm figure, pressing his cheek against the soft cotton pajamas the other boy wore, eyes closed, listening to the rythmic beat of Harry's heart.   
  


Until he was six, nightmares had sent him screaming down the stairs, barging into Mum and Dad's room, burrowing under their blankets before finally falling asleep in his Mum's arms. At six, when Fred and George had told him it was a baby thing to go running to Mummy every time he dreamed of spiders or werewolves, he had endured a few horrible nights alone in the dark of his room with only his fears for company. One night, with the thunder crashing and the rain pelting the windows, with the lightening striking oh-so-close, he had broken and fled his room, terrified. But he had not gone to Mum and Dad; he wasn't a baby anymore, after all. Instead, he had tiptoed, a six year old boy in his older brothers too large pajamas, into Percy's room and climbed into his bed.   
  


Surrounded by Percy's warmth, limbs tangled with his brothers, the comforting beat of the older boy's heart had surrounded him, drowning out the crash of the storm outside and the ghoul upstairs. After that, whenever he had nightmares he had fled, not to his parents but to his brothers--Bill or Charlie, Fred and George--it didn't matter. They tickled and teased and held him; they drove away the scary things that crept in the corners during the night.   
  


Hogwarts had ended it, of course. Not the nightmares; definitely not those, but the nights curled up next to Percy, sprawled across Charlie, or sandwiched between Fred and George. School age boys didn't run to *anyone*...not even their big brothers, just because they had scary dreams or got homesick sometimes. For roughly the next four years he slept alone in his bed, and he dealt with the monsters that came to him in the night as best as he could.   
  


Then, the summer after their fourth year, Harry had needed him, desperately. He could see it, even if Harry couldn't...Harry had never had brothers, after all. Never had a Fred and George to tickle him until he was breathless, a Charlie to tell fantastic stories, or a Percy to bore him to sleep. He had never woken up to the beat of another persons heart. And so they had bunked together, on the lumpy mattress on the floor of his room at the Burrow, that summer and every summer after, driving away Harry's nightmares.   
  


It had made Ron feel good, in some indescribable way. *He* was the one who drove away Harry's demons, *his* was the first heartbeat Harry had ever woken up to. And somehow, in learning to give comfort rather then simply receive it, he had defeated the old monsters that had stalked him in the night.   
  


What you never realized until too late was...was that the monsters always came back.   
  


Different monsters, yes. More insiduous then the ones he had banished when he bunked with Percy and Charlie. No longer towering, twelve foot tall spiders or slavering werewolves that had haunted his dreams, wanting to devour little boys, but shadows.   
  


Suddenly, with one violent act, the shadows had claimed him, and his world had turned upside down.   
  


Suddenly, he wasn't the one comforting Harry anymore. He wasn't the one holding his best friend, whispering sarcastic little quips in his ear and trying to make him smile. He wasn't the one doing anything--*anything*--to distract his best friend away from the thoughts that darkened his eyes, weighed down his soul.   
  


It was really kind of funny, how their positions had completely reversed in the last two weeks.   
  


Ever since...*him*   
  


Him.   
  


It.   
  


Malfoy.   
  


Strong fingers were tracing the outline of his jaw, idly fingering the long strands of red-gold hair tucked behind his left ear. He pressed into the touch, hand cupping Harry's wrist, feeling the callouses of the boys palm on his skin as he held Harry's hand to his face.   
  


Breathe. In and out. Eyes closed, listening to the steady beat of Harry's heart, the flow of breath in and out of Harry's lungs. Like the rythem of the ocean. Eternal.   
  


He would have sacrficed far more then...then what he had, if it meant that the slow, steady rythem would continue.   
  


Like the sound of breaking waves.   
  


"Ron?"   
  


Without so much as a twitch, he growled...a warning to the Boy Who Was Currently Playing With His Hair that he was upsetting the rythem of the waves.   
  


"Lovely. You sound like Sirius."   
  


Despite his attempt to remain half-asleep, Ron felt himself, rather reluctantly, being dragged awake by the dual influences of Harry's hand and voice. Not that he wanted to actually fall asleep again, mind. There were...things...in his sleep he didn't particularly want to see. Bad things. But it was nice, in the gray area between sleep and wakefullness, where the only sound was the eternal rythem of Harry's breathing, the feel of Harry's fingers in his hair. Nothing bad could ever happen there.   
  


Now, though, Harry's fingers were no longer stroking through his hair; they had slipped lower, touching the bare skin of his neck, where time had reduced Draco Malfoy's bite to a mere shadow.   
  


"Bad dream?"   
  


Somehow, his own fingers--and the hand attatched to them--had moved, slowly sliding up the fabric of the other boy's cotton pajamas. Green pajamas, his own mother had picked them out in Diagon Alley just this summer, when Harry had finally had his growth spurt. Soft fabric, nappy with washing and constant wear. Warm skin underneath that he felt through the cloth, the pressure of the hand on his neck, legs tangled together as he rested his cheek on Harry's chest...   
  


A soft gasp of air was the other boy's only response as Ron shifted his body, but it was enough. Then strong arms tugged him upwards, his lips met Harry's and they breathed for each other.   
  


An eternity later, far too soon, they broke apart just enough to speak; Ron could feel the soft pants of his best friends breath on his own wet mouth. A flash of color as Harry licked his lip, just once; Ron closed his eyes, shivering at the image even as Harry's hands slipped back into his hair, twining among the strands at the base of his skull.   
  


"Bad dream?"   
  


Fuck.   
  


Couldn't the boy be unobservant just once?   
  


"It--was nothing."   
  


Yet his eyes dropped away from Harry's green ones; he fought a blush of color rising in his cheeks. Stupid, useless *terrible* fucking liar. Always had been.   
  


The hand gathered in his hair tugged, gently, guiding his head to rest on Harry's left shoulder. He opened his mouth reluctantly, wanting to forestall any more questions about his dreams--and then clapped his hand over his mouth, stifling the cry that had almost escaped him when Harry's mouth had fastened on the skin of his neck, biting down at a sensitive spot just under his jaw.   
  


Oh, God.   
  


He tossed his head back, exposing more of his neck for Harry's mouth. Those fingers were still combing restlessly through his hair, his own hands left his mouth and slipped upwards, brushing Harry's skin, framing his face. And still the mouth worked; sending shocks all through his body. That felt...good. More then good. Really good. Damn good. Really damn fucking good.   
  


Evidently Harry thought so too; the other boys breath was heavy, coming in harsh pants. Dimly, he was aware that Harry was trembling, ever so slightly. Just noticeable in the fit of his body against Ron's, the hand that was slipping underneath his pajama top, pressing at the small of his back...   
  


He couldn't breathe. He knew he *was* breathing, performing the act anyway, but it didn't seem to be working, despite the fact that it always had before. He was breathing air, but none of it was getting into his lungs.   
  


"Ron?"   
  


The warm hand at the small of his back paused, as did the mouth on his neck. The word cast a gust of air on Ron's neck, he felt it in the circle of wet heat left by Harry's mouth and tongue.   
  


"Ron? Why are you shaking?"   
  


Tremors seemed to have gripped him; he felt cold, all of a sudden.   
  


Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.   
  


Harry hadn't been trembling after all.   
  


It had been him.   
  


The heat and electricity that had been coursing through him just seconds before had left; but his body still trembled, gooseflesh breaking out on his arms and back. Every part of him that wasn't touching Harry suddenly felt unbelievably cold.   
  


"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...we shouldn't have..."   
  


NO!   
  


"Oh, shut up, Harry. It wasn't--wasn't that. Wasn't *you*"   
  


He kept his eyes closed, face buried in the crook between Harry's neck and shoulder, where he could almost feel the beat of the other boys pulse.   
  


Silence descended between them again, but unlike the soft, sleepy quiet of earlier this had an expectant tone to it that Ron hated. Neither boy broke the silence.   
  


Harry had never been particularly good at comforting other people, Ron knew. Having never recieved much comfort himself as a child, at least not until he came to Hogwarts, his best friend was never particularly good with expressing emotions, or trying to make someone feel better without embarrassing them.   
  


Because of that, quite a few other people found him cold. But Ron never had. It was simply...Harry. And just because he didn't *show* it didn't mean he didn't *feel* it.   
  


Yet, the other boy had tried, in the past two weeks. Tried like hell to constantly do something that he had never done before. To reassure with a glance, to comfort with a word or two. Because, as much as Ron was disgusted with himself to admit it, he had been a fucking wreck ever since...It.   
  


Fuck. There it was again. It. It. It. It. It.   
  


No other word or reference for 'It.'   
  


It was just...after 'It' it seemed like everything...everything had stopped making sense. He still didn't know why *Malfoy*...   
  


His grades were slipping; he coudn't seem to pay attention in class at all anymore. Thank God all of his classes were with Harry, or he wouldn't be able to even pretend to pay attention. Hermoine was growing increasingly frustrated at both boys distraction; Harry's grades had dipped also and Ron was on the verge of failing Potions...   
  


A small aftershock wound its way up his spine and he shivered, pressing his body more firmly on Harry's. The other boys hands were on his back now; rubbing against the cotton fabric of his own, too small, hand-me-down maroon pajamas in slowly expanding circles. Hmmm. Felt nice. Harry may not be the best at words, but he *knew* somehow, when and how Ron wanted to be touched.   
  


Slowly, the shiver subsided, but the unpleasant thought refused to be banished by the movement of Harry's hands. God. He had already hated Potions more then any other class, ever since first year. It was always so fucking *cold* in the dungeons, and Snape was such a lousy biased death- eating scumbag, and he could never remember the proper ingrediants for the right potions...   
  


Unawares, a small, bitter smile began to form on his lips. God. He sounded like a child. All the reasons he had had for not liking Potions sounded like something a first year Hufflepuff would say. He had honestly thought he had hated Potions *before*   
  


Before.   
  


Another word they thought but never spoke. Before. Before what? Why, before 'It,' of course.   
  


Now, all his other reasons seemed...well, childish. All his 'before' reasons for hating Potions.   
  


For hating anything, actually.   
  


He had *thought* he had hated before. Thought he knew what it felt like, believed he knew what it meant to actually, *actively* hate someone.   
  


Now he knew.   
  


He had been taught quite thouroughly.   
  


// "Don't worry, Weasley. I'm an excellent tutor."//   
  


*He* was the reason Potions was now the most miserable few hours of his life, *he* was the reason he was afraid to let Harry out of his sight anymore, *he* was the reason Hermoine was becoming suspicious, asking questions, *he* was the reason he couldn't stand to be alone at all anymore, *he* was why Ron flinched practically every time someone cast a spell, *he* was the one who had left scars on his body that Seamus had asked about yesterday in the locker room, *he* was the reason he couldn't sleep for more then an hour without having a fucking nightmare, *he* was the reason Harry had almost died...   
  


He.   
  


He.   
  


He.   
  


Malfoy.   
  


*He* was the reason Ron now knew, intimately, just what real hate was.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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I'm so glad so many people requesed a Ron POV--I enjoyed writing this one a lot. I dunno, I may now use some Ron POV for the actual sequal, which should be the next step in my little ADWD universe. What did you like? What did you not like? What is the wingspan of an African swallow? : )   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  



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